


To Trust A Spy

by Konamicodex



Category: James Bond (Craig movies)
Genre: AU, Adult Content, BDSM, Blow Jobs, Cunnilingus, Daddy Kink, F/M, Graphic Sex, M/M, Multi, Violence, prostitution AU
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2015-01-30
Updated: 2015-02-13
Packaged: 2018-03-09 15:51:32
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence, No Archive Warnings Apply, Rape/Non-Con
Chapters: 2
Words: 3,442
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/3255608
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Konamicodex/pseuds/Konamicodex
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>A young man with no name and no family earns his living working as an escort for the rich, famous, and political.  When he gets an exclusive contract with a mysterious stranger neither of them expects it to end the way it does.  Will it be impossible to trust a spy when sex and secrets are involved?</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Hindsight

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Work Cited for Violence/Rape/Non-Con for future chapters, may not be present in all chapters.

The corner of the desk bit into his hips every time he was rhythmically pushed into it, and for a moment he was distracted by the thought that a desk that expensive shouldn't cause such annoyingly persistent pain. He thought a desk that cost almost as much as his car should have been caressing his skin, holding him lightly, whispering how fucking pretty he was as he was being fucked against it.

The things in his life that were worth any amount of money were never quite that sweet. The tie that had been pushed between his teeth and knotted behind his head was his clients and probably could have paid his rent, yet here it was pulling at his hair and being soaked through with saliva. 

Every now and then, out of spite or boredom, he'd grind his teeth between perfectly practiced moans in hopes that he'd fray the silk a bit and ruin it completely. Which was almost unintentional as Mister Corporate had picked up his pace as he edged closer to the inevitable climax. The thrusting became violent and irregular, and one of the hands that had been pushing down on his lower back was suddenly in the far too expensive tie, pulling his head back. He didn't have to fake the sounds that fell muffled from his own lips at that point, though it was difficult to focus on one sensation at a time. 

The biting of the desk's edge with every desperate push of his client's hips, the new ache in his back as he fought to keep his neck from snapping, the possessive grip of the hand on his ass as the movements ceased entirely and he listened to the vile grunting of a man well spent.

He did his best to play the part of a well fucked object that loved every moment, rolling his hips and mewling when Suit And Tie withdrew his not-so-average, and not-so-impressively wilting cock from within him. As if he worshiped it, as if he would crave it until he was called for again. He even managed not to hurry through un-knotting the makeshift gag in his mouth, and frowning adorably at having ruined the poor thing. 

So sorry, darling. Couldn't help it.

And as the CEO with the wife and kids gripped firmly at his cock, fumbling about at what he was sure he thought was a mind blowing gesture of gratitude, he even dropped his head back and let out a convincing moan that said 'oh god yes daddy, touch me again.'

In all, it took no more than 1 hour and 37 minutes and he was walking out of the front lobby with 2k in his pocket and bruises on his hips. At least the clients these days didn't mind that he insisted they put on the condoms he brought with him, so he didn't have to worry about that oh so annoying feeling of come dripping down his leg anymore. Not that he always hated it, but there was a time and place for such debauchery. 

A detour to the bank, a pause at a local shop for a cold drink, and he was home in his shower before most people knew what they were going to be having for dinner after work.

There were six new messages on his machine that he had ignored from the moment he walked in the door, until well after his hair had dried from being thoroughly washed. The press of a button and Mallory was scolding him for not answering his mobile because he knew damned well he only had one client today and that one never takes very long so when you get this message, and all the others, call him back because he's got a new one on the books and he's going to be your exclusive. It's important. He means it.

His hesitance to pick up the phone didn't come from having a new client that he was unfamiliar with, but rather at the use of the term exclusive. He knew what exclusive meant. Exclusive meant beck and call, exclusive meant 24/7, exclusive meant no other work until exclusive was no longer requiring their services. Exclusive usually meant he'd have to have his neighbor stop by and tend to his cat. On the other hand, exclusive also meant paid up front, and exclusive meant finally taking that vacation he'd been planning when exclusive was no longer exclusive.

 

He didn't call his handler back immediately, despite the insisting on the messages. He delayed, he thought it over, he stalled. He washed his dishes, did laundry, dusted his plants, and worked on a new computer program that he had been neglecting. He vacuumed the floors, and the hallway outside of his flat just for good measure. He rearranged his sock drawer.

When he did finally pick up the phone and dial the number, he was almost surprised that he didn't immediately receive a laying-into that he was certain to come. There was nothing except professional delight at the call having been made, which was only confusing for about half a second.

"You're having dinner with him, aren't you?" He interrupted the pleasantries, settling back onto his sofa only to be made into a resting place by his cat a moment later.

Dinner with the client before the official contract was completed almost always meant the official contract was already completed and he was just the last to hear about it. He vaguely wondered if Mallory took it upon himself to forge his signature this time. The conversation was cut short with a promise that they would talk first thing in the morning. He could almost imagine exactly what was said the moment the phone was disconnected. 'He is eager to meet you, sir. You will be more than satisfied, sir. Whatever you'd like, sir, he is our best, sir.'

It was almost flattering.

He hadn't meant to fall asleep on the sofa, but every now and then it did tend to happen. Lost in thoughts or some ridiculous pseudo reality tv show and he was snoozing with a feline curled up around his head. When he woke it was at an hour of the morning when no living thing should be awake, and it was only long enough to relieve himself and then down the medication that had been sitting neglected in it's bottle since the slept-through supper time.

It wasn't difficult to get back to sleep once he managed to relocate to his own bed. It was plush, it was soft, it was perfect and it only took him three hours of mattress shopping to find it. Many great dreams were had between those sheets, and not a single one of them happened with a Mr. Corporate or Sir Politician breathing down the back of his neck.

Only people he knew were allowed to know where he lived, and only people he absolutely trusted were allowed inside. He should have been startled when morning came and brought with it the smell of coffee and someone nudging annoyingly at his foot. 

“You slept through our appointment time, again.” A pause and the sound of the mug clicking as it was set down on the bedside table. “Remind me why I keep you on staff?”

He removed himself from the tangle of sheets enough to greet the invader of his home with a wary squint through bed-ravaged curls and the blur of lingering sleep. “Because I've put both of your kids through university, and I’m adorable.”

The bed sank slightly as Mallory sat beside him, taking leave to reach out and brush aside the unruly hair that grew far more unruly in the middle of the night. “More of the first, but the latter certainly helps. This client is important.”

He answered with a frustrated groan and immediately rolled himself away and out of the bed. “It’s first thing in the morning, Mal.”

“It’s two in the afternoon.” His handler waited for it to sink in before trailing after him, picking up the mug of coffee to deliver it directly into his hands. “You’re having dinner tonight with your new client, dress nice, don’t be late. I’ll text you the details.” 

He was left on his own after that, the door clicking closed and leaving him in the ambient silence of a flat filled with humming electronics. When the text message came through, he didn't ignore it, for once, and jotted down the address, time, and name of the man he was intended to meet. Six hours until the appointment to make plans for whatever this new client may or may not want with him for the foreseeable future. He decided he was likely to be boring, dull, typical of any other diplomat that he was signed to under ‘exclusive’. Secretive, likely, but not at all uncommon from the usual. 

After all, what sort of a man called himself ...James Bond?


	2. "Pen Doodle At Urinal" by Anonymous

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> A date with James Bond doesn't go exactly as planned as a Dark Shadow from our protagonists past pops back up at the most inconvenient of times. He also gets a name!

If it wasn't an executive suite in an office building, it was a penthouse in some hotel owned by a man whose hair piece cost more than his designer suits. He knew the man with the pricey hair piece. He'd been fucked by the man with the pricey hair piece. Well, maybe not specifically that man, but enough men exactly like him. The sort of men that stood on soapboxes touting the sanctity of marriage while they filled their wallets with the money from the churches and the politicians. The sort of men that forgot about the sanctity of marriage as they emptied their wallets the second he dropped to his knees and unfastened their belts with his teeth. 

This time it wasn't a penthouse or an executive suite, it was a brand new restaurant run by a chef who had a reputation across four of the seven seas. It was dinner and wine, and a promise of indulgent conversation like normal people. Normal people on a date, getting to know one another. Normal people that certainly were not hiding their lives and pretending not to be a man with a kink list a mile long (he assumed) and the fucktoy that would do any of them for the right price. 

It would have been delightful, charming even, except he had been sitting at the reserved table for at least an hour and Mister Exclusive had yet to show up. It had gotten to the point that the waitstaff was giving him sympathetic looks and the maître d' was growing anxious about the table being occupied. Three glasses of water, a bit of complimentary wine later, and he was torn between knowing that the staff would seat someone else the moment he abandoned his chair and desperately needing to relieve himself. In the end, it was worth the risk to lose the reservation for a client that had yet to show versus the alternative of making a right ass of himself by pissing where he sat. 

He wasn't expecting conversation in the bathroom. No one ever does. Yet, there he was standing with dick in hand, staring at a crudely drawn stick figure who was doing much the same, when the gentlemen at the sink got chatty. It interrupted his idle thoughts on what sort of person brings a pen with them into the loo of a fancy restaurant, (The sort that doodles with one hand while they piss with the other, he supposed.) and threw his mind into an unexpected silence that was amplified by the sound of the running sink and the trickle of urine hitting foul smelling soap cakes.

The silence was not for a lack of responses to the casual greeting, but rather a dreaded sense of shock that comes when one hears the voice of a person they were assured by court order that they would never see again. The voice that proclaimed loudly and with colorful anger, 'I will fucking kill you if I get the chance you fucking whore' the last time he heard it. What a ridiculous time to be grateful he was already standing in front of a urinal relieving himself as he was certain that he would have emptied his bladder in those moments of realization. 

"I know it's you, so you can ignore me all you want." The man helpfully chimed in to fill the void his own lack of a response left behind. He thought that this would be the proper time to find his voice enough to proclaim his lack of fear, or a reminder of the current restraining order that should have been preventing a situation like this from happening. It was the proper time for any response that wasn't turning into a pissing cherub perched artistically in some matriarch’s flower garden. Yet, that’s exactly what he was doing. 

Standing there, unmoving, dick in hand. 

It was that odd squeak of leather shoes on polished tile and damp fingers at his hair that jolted him. A thousand volts of wake-the-fuck-up-and-do-something straight to the spine. Never before had he tucked-and-zipped as fast as he had in that moment; had he even given himself a courtesy shake? Probably not. It was an clumsy ballet of turning to leave while the nightmare-from-the-past refused to budge, and in fact, reduced his ability to move even further by making sure that what progress he made away from the urinal was obliterated by swiftly backing him into the wall. 

“What name are you going by these days? It’s been impossible to find you.” There was a warm grin on his lips that never quite touched the cold of his voice. It bore into him, digging its nails at the flesh of his terror, ripping it open so that it oozed and bled the brilliant fire of panic through his chest. It almost didn't matter that murderer-to-be had his hand around his throat and was pressing his thumb into his windpipe; he had doubts that he would be able to breathe proper anyway. 

There were days after it first happened that he laid awake, plotting and planning out all the things that he should have done, could have done, if he had just been thinking clearly. If he grabs me from behind, I can subdue him like this. If he comes at me from the front, I can just kick him there. I will be prepared next time. I won’t let him hurt me next time. Next time I will be ready. There won’t be a next time. 

There was always a next time.

He was never ready.

That was before the police were called and a lengthy prosecution had Mister Violent Tendencies put in a tiny room with another man who shared a similar name for an extended period of time. Paperwork was filed, names were changed, new cities were discovered. Life had moved on. Self-defense classes were taken. Lots of self-defense classes. An absurd amount of self-defense classes. The sort of classes that they save for those training to move into paramilitary or private defense work, not professional escorts.

Mallory insisted. He made a quick mental note to send him a fruit basket later.

He let Fear and Panic have their turn for a moment, he blamed the unexpected surprise of the encounter more than anything. Once his old friends were satisfied with what they had done to his reflexes, he let the lessons kick in. The preparedness. The confidence that this mother-fucker was going to learn what sound the bridge of a nose makes when it’s crushed, first hand. 

He never fought back before, so doing so this time felt like a jumping out of an airplane, cliff diving, base jumping, shock wave of a close-by explosion thrill that made it instantly easier to breathe the moment he got That-Fucker’s hand off his throat. He couldn't quite put into order exactly what he had done, but at some point he had gotten his hand in the hair of his assailant and introduced him face first to the fine artistic styling of Pen Doodle At Urinal by Anonymous. There was satisfying crack that echoed in the empty bathroom, followed by a symphony of a disjointed yowl and a string of vibrant, and choice, cuss-words. He listened to very few of them, ignoring what was shouted as he made a quick jaunt for the door. 

Exit, Stage Right. 

He would have been keen on simply leaving the restaurant, calling his handler, and the police, and a handful of friends that had been begging for the chance to pummel the man he left bleeding into a urinal, but there was a man standing near the table he had vacated. A man that was staring at him, seemingly mid-sentence with a member of the waitstaff, who fluidly palmed the girl an amount of money before approaching.

“Mister Bond?” He greeted, unsure of whether or not his voice gave away the incident or the glaring mark of previous strangulation on his throat. Something did, however, as the attention of his newest client shifted from him, to the bathroom door that muffled the angry protests inside. “Can we leave? ...Food here is rubbish.”

...

The cool air outside was desperately welcome as it gave him an excuse as to why he was shivering that wasn't the obvious explanation. Adrenaline was such a bitch when it wore off. Frankly, he couldn't quite fathom how he managed to pull out his mobile, dial his handler, and explain what the fuck just happened without dropping the phone right there on the sidewalk. A conversation that he was also keenly aware that his client was clearly listening in on, as the moment his voice started shaking, a warm and ridiculously expensive coat was slipped over his shoulders. 

“Do you need an ambulance?” Mr. Bond asked calmly as they stepped away from the restaurant and down the street through the crowd. There was concern in the way that he tilted his head to get a better look at the marks on his throat, even hesitation before a hand was lightly placed on his shoulder. It was welcome, it was nice. It was what he needed to shake off the sudden flurry of emotions. 

“No. I've had worse while working, this is nothing.” 

It was almost amazing how easily they dropped the event after that. With the flash of red and blue lights behind them, a few lingering moments where one gazed at the other with utmost concern, a laughable attempt at reassurance, then it was a stroll in the middle of the night in the city like normal people, on a normal date. Novel, quaint. 

He took the time in these little moment, while they strolled along in the chilled scents of street vendors and open door pubs, to truly look at the man that he had been contracted to for the foreseeable future. James Bond was, in every sense of the word, charming. Slightly older than his usual, but he only really showed it around his eyes. Even the twinge of gray in his hair didn't age him, and seemed to only add sophistication to his appearance. He was certainly athletic, from what he could see of his build, and carried himself with a confidence not typically found in the Corporate side of his clientele. Theories swam about in the back of his mind as to profession, upbringing, sexual cravings, and why exactly a man like this would need to hire out a full-time escort. 

“Your agent,” (what a lovely way of putting it.) “Didn't tell me what you’d prefer to be called. On your file, you’re listed only as Q.” There was amusement in his tone, a curiosity. A playful lit that wondered whether or not a young man like him really traipsed around going by a moniker reduced to a single letter. 

“I don’t typically give out my name, even to long term clients, but you’re welcome to guess.” He was idly reminded of a very old american film about a prostitute, one that typically got brought up when he was off shagging the elite overseas. What’s your name, baby. Whatever you want it to be, sugar. She ended up going by Vivian. 

“Are you going to agree to the first name I say?” James was clever, as he intended on doing just that, willing it wasn't something ridiculous. This time, felt different, however. Maybe it was the assault in the bathroom from a Poor-Life-Choice, or maybe it was the feeling of regaining some of his power by Defending Himself. He was brave now, strong now, confident now.

“It’s Jonah.” And for once, he wasn't lying.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> You're all beautiful and I adore you. Thank you for reading up with me, and I hope I am doing well enough to keep you interested. Stick around for the relentless smut that is to come. There is plot too, but really, who is here for that?
> 
> xo


End file.
